The telegram reached Ram before the ink on the last order had dried.
ATTEMPTED SIGNATURE REQUEST REPEATED—DIFFERENT OFFICE. SAME WORDING.
Same phrasing. Different doorway.
They weren't asking anymore.
They were hunting.
Ram walked into the crisis room without taking off his coat. Patel was already there, standing—not sitting—one hand on the rail map as if he could pin the country down by force of will.
"Who received it?" Ram asked.
Sharma came up too quickly. "Deputy Secretary in Communications. They arrived with a letter stamped urgent, claimed verbal support from Government House. He hesitated—sent word here."
"And did he sign?" Patel asked.
"No, Sardar Sahib."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Name him."
Sharma gave it.
"Good," Patel said. "We reward integrity quietly. And we protect him from pressure."
Ram didn't waste a breath. "Freeze all communications procurement and 'access' requests for seventy-two hours unless cleared by this desk. Written order. Circulate it as procedure."
Sharma swallowed. "Prime Minister Sahib—seventy-two hours—"
"We are not pausing governance," Ram said. "We are pausing capture."
Patel leaned in, voice low and hard. "Make the order clean. Legal language. Clear authority. No room for interpretation."
Sharma nodded and ran.
Basu, the rail liaison, pushed forward with a fresh slip. "Prime Minister Sahib—Ambala line reports Red. Armed men near the track. Refugee train delayed."
Patel didn't look up. "Escort."
Sharma called over his shoulder, already moving. "Limited units, Sardar Sahib."
Patel turned, eyes sharp. "Then stop wasting units on appearances. Deploy on arteries."
Ram pointed to the map. "Divert one escort from the low-tension segment. Ambala gets priority."
Basu's mouth opened.
Patel shut it with a glance. "Do it."
Another runner entered, panting, and dropped a handful of telegrams on the table. The Home clerk read headings aloud like a man reciting wounds.
"Punjab—clashes near a relief cluster.""Delhi—station crowd reduced, police holding.""Food—grain stocks strained in Old Delhi.""Amritsar—station tension rising."
Ram's hand hovered over the pile, selecting what mattered most. A nation could bleed out through a hundred small cuts. He had to choose where to place pressure first.
The telephone rang—rare, sharp.
Kishan lifted it, listened, and stiffened. "Prime Minister Sahib—Government House. They say Mr. Jinnah wishes to speak. Direct line."
The room tightened around the name.
Ram took the receiver. Patel stepped closer—not interfering, simply making sure Ram wasn't alone in the room's gravity.
"Mr. Jinnah," Ram said.
The voice on the line was precise, controlled, clipped by fatigue and pride. "Prime Minister Gupta. We are both awake for the same reason."
"Yes," Ram replied. "Blood moves faster than borders."
A pause. Then, colder: "There are reports of attacks on trains and convoys. This cannot become a ritual exchange of corpses."
Patel's eyes hardened, but he stayed silent.
Jinnah continued, as if reading from a file only he possessed. "I propose immediate coordination. A joint mechanism for rail corridors and refugee movement. Shared information on provocateurs. Synchronized escorts. Synchronized messaging."
Ram didn't answer with emotion. Emotion was how traps were baited.
"What does the mechanism look like?" he asked. "Names. Authority. Verification."
Jinnah's response came without delay—he had expected the question. "Two liaison officers from each side—Railways and Home. Fixed times daily. Written logs exchanged through liaison channels. No public announcements until it functions."
Patel's voice came close to Ram's ear—quiet, approving. "Written channels. Good."
Ram held the receiver steady. "Agreed in principle. But strict limits. Liaison only. No operational presence inside Delhi. All exchanges logged."
Jinnah's tone cooled by a degree. "Acceptable."
Then the real test, delivered like a blade wrapped in formal words: "There are also reports your administration intends to centralize emergency powers in Delhi in a manner that will target Muslims under the guise of order."
Ram didn't flinch. "Order will not be communal. Any officer using uniform for revenge will be punished."
"Words are easy," Jinnah said instantly.
Patel leaned in and spoke into the receiver without asking permission—because permission was a luxury the Republic did not have.
"Mr. Jinnah," Patel said, calm as stone, "you control your police and militias on your side. We will control ours. If you cannot control them, do not lecture us on intentions."
Silence. Then Jinnah, a shade drier: "Sardar Patel. I assumed you were present."
Patel didn't deny it. "We don't build states alone."
Jinnah exhaled, and the exhale contained something like grudging respect. "Appoint your liaison officers by noon."
"We will," Ram said. "And we will share verified information—not rumors."
"Good," Jinnah replied. "Then let us see whether restraint is possible."
The line went dead.
Ram set the receiver down.
For a moment the room was quiet—not calm, just briefly emptied of one kind of noise.
Then it filled again.
Kishan stepped in with a slip from All India Radio.
NEHRU REQUESTS GUIDANCE—WILL SPEAK AGAIN IF NEEDED.
Ram scribbled quickly and handed it back: TELL THEM: DO NOT CHASE RUMORS. HELP REFUGEES. VIOLENCE WILL BE PUNISHED. RELIEF IS ARRIVING.
Patel watched the note go. "Let him speak. His words cool the air."
"They also raise expectations," Ram replied.
Patel's gaze didn't waver. "Then meet expectations with relief, not slogans."
A runner pushed through the door with a new sheet, this one bearing Ambedkar's crisp hand on the margin.
"Prime Minister Sahib," Kishan said, "Dr. Ambedkar's draft. Ordinance language. Communications access."
Ram scanned it once. It was clean, surgical, hard to wriggle around.
He looked at Patel. "We issue this today."
Patel nodded. "And we enforce it without theatre. Quiet enforcement lasts longer."
Another messenger entered—this one not breathless, but tense. "Prime Minister Sahib—delegation outside. Muslim League committee from Delhi. They demand assurances. They claim police harassment near the station."
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Were they harassed?"
Sharma returned, catching the end of it. "Two arrests. Stone-throwing. No lathi-charge."
Patel's voice was flat. "Bring the facts. Not a mob in a room."
Ram said, "Bring their leader in. Patel stays."
A thin man entered, sweating through his collar, eyes too sharp for pure fear. He began fast—accusations, warnings, the familiar language of politics trying to control the moment before the moment controlled it.
Ram lifted one hand. "One sentence. Then facts."
The man stopped, startled by the simplicity.
Patel's presence did the rest. The man's voice slowed. Names surfaced. Locations. Times. Less theatre, more substance.
A clerk arrived mid-conversation and quietly placed another telegram in Ram's hand.
Ram read it and felt the pace of the day jump again.
LAHORE CORRIDOR—RETALIATORY MOB FORMING. REPORTS OF SLAUGHTER ON BOTH SIDES. REQUEST GUIDANCE.
Both sides. The fire was feeding itself now.
Ram looked at the delegation leader.
"You want assurances?" Ram said, voice low. "Then help us isolate the men who want blood. Speak restraint into your lanes. Give names if you have them. We will protect citizens—because we will protect the Republic from becoming a revenge machine."
The man hesitated, caught between fear and calculation.
Patel ended the hesitation with clarity. "If any policeman abuses citizens on religious grounds, we remove him. If any citizen incites violence, we arrest him. Equality will be enforced, not negotiated."
The leader swallowed. "We will cooperate."
"Good," Ram said. "Then go. And tell your people: rumor is a match. Don't carry it."
They left quickly—less satisfied than they wanted, more contained than they feared.
The room snapped back to operations.
Ram laid out the next moves without ornament:
"Ambala escort moves immediately. Liaison officers appointed by noon—Railways and Home. Nehru speaks again if crowds rise. Communications ordinance issued today. Procurement freeze circulated now. Relief expansion at camps—water first, then grain."
Sharma's pen flew.
Patel added, voice like a final signature. "And a discipline circular to police—written and read out at stations. No vengeance. No lathi-charge unless necessary. Arrest inciters. Protect refugees. If discipline fails, legitimacy dies."
Ram nodded once. "Do it."
A fresh slip arrived at the edge of the table—another "access" request routed through yet another office, the same language copied like infection.
Patel saw it and didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Ram folded it carefully, slower than urgency demanded.
Because this was the heart of it—the war inside the paperwork.
"Lock it down," Ram said. "No signatures. No exceptions. Every attempt logged."
Patel's eyes held Ram's for a beat—anchor, warning, agreement all at once.
Outside, Delhi was waking into the second day of freedom, and the air still smelled faintly of smoke.
The line wasn't stable yet.
But it was moving.
And Ram intended to keep it moving—faster than rumor, faster than mobs, faster than the hands reaching for "access" in the dark.